Skeleton Key
by Wasting words
Summary: No summary yet. Read on & find out. LipxOC


Disclaimer: I don't own Shameless.

Moving was the worst.

I watched out the window as life blurred past . Chicago; depressingly grey, windy, snow covered Chicago. Bare trees, beaten down houses, the sky was in a desperate attempt to change from a murky looking ash color to a beautiful blue that could be compared to ever sunny Nebraska. I was too wrapped up in my own thoughts to notice anything else, including the taxi stopping at its final destination.

"Miss?" My gaze snapped back from oblivion to the driver, staring at me from the rear view mirror. "This is it," his eyes flicked to the meter then back to me, "50 even today."

Fuck me. I lifted my ass off the seat to fumble around in my pockets a bit. I pulled out crinkled bills, tens, ones, twenties, pretty much the last bit of money I had, slapping it all in the palm of the drivers' hand, "Keep the change." He nodded, stepping out the driver's side to, quite unexpectedly, open my door for me. He then stepped around to the trunk to unload my luggage; three duffle bags and one half filled suitcase. I offered a dry smile, stepping close to my luggage just in case.

The engine of the taxi picked back up and I watched as the yellow car became nothing but a speck in the distance. I was alone in strange city, a strange state, thousands of miles from what I could barley consider home. I was on my own, for the most part.

I moved here to be with my boyfriend, Kolby. Who, surprise, surprise, I met off the internet. Some lame blogging site called tumblr that I barley log into anymore. He came to visit once, twice…maybe three times before he finally sweet talked me into shacking up with him. A Chicago native, he worked as an under paid truck driver, who happened to pass through the Big Red loving, corn husking state of Nebraska, where I was born and raised. We had coffee our first time meeting.

I stood there, inhaling a breath but holding it in, looking at his house. Or our house, I guess it was. But I was afraid to call it that—afraid to place a label on it because I knew if I started calling it _our _house, I would become comfortable and when you get 'comfortable' with something new, shit gets real. It gets real fast.

I wasn't ready for any of _this_, so I gave in to old habits. I stumbled over to the lawn and let my knees buckle under me, crashing down on the dead grass, making a loud 'crunch' upon impact. I haven't slept in days, my mind was even more erratic and I was feeling more neurotic than the usual. I curled up on the lawn, taking a handful of crunchy grass and clutched it, then slowly opened my hand to watch it crumble out. Crunch, crunch, crackle, crackle. Oh that noise? Just the sound of my sanity slipping away. No big deal.

What was I doing here? I didn't have any _real_ reason to be here. Well, you know, besides teenage rebellion, to live in sin, all that bullshit. Oh and my mother. She was neurotic as I was. On second thought, I probably inherited all my crazypants genes from her. She was boarding the edge of being put in a fucking insane asylum. Most days she didn't remember who I was and when she did, she hated my entire existence, including the air I breathed, which didn't necessarily bother me. Probably why I ended up with a guy I met over the internet at fifteen, moving in with him after three meetings at seventeen.

Murmurs coming from all around me finally convinced me to pick my Mommy issued self up off the lawn and over to my luggage. I wheeled it to the cloud white door slowly; Kolby said he'd leave the door unlocked. He was much more trusting than I could ever credit myself for. I tapped the door with the tip of my shoe, hearing it creek open in a haunting manner.

This was not my home.

The house, with its beat up brown leather sectional, matching loveseat, coke table and seafoam green recliner was not my home. I threw my belongings onto the ugly chair and went upstairs to his room.

This was not my home.

Even though the bed had been made with Clorox sheets, decorated with soft rose petals—dyed black to suit my liking—in a misshapen heart, with a note and a vase full of, yes, white roses on the night stand to the left of the bed. Even with all the effort he put into it, this wasn't my home. He couldn't even be here to greet me. Not his fault, his job demanded he be wherever they needed him, whenever they needed him.

I gave into first impulse and sprawled onto the bed, not even bothering to clear it. I let out a sigh, that turned into a yawn that morphed into a deep sleep that I had yet to experience in my seventeen years of life.


End file.
